Στο τέλος Να τι Όλα είναι θέμα
by mktoddsparky
Summary: /I catch a glimpse of eyes black as the Pit. Then – pain, rippling across my vessel's chest, burning inside of me. I scream./ Post 8x8. After Castiel's nearly torn apart, Dean realizes they're facing something darker than anything they've ever seen: an unholy trinity, hell-bent on revenge. This is far bigger than an Earthly Apocalypse. This time, they're fighting to save Heaven.
1. one

**.**/**.**Στο τέλος Να τι Όλα είναι θέμα**.**\**.**

**_"in the end, that's what it's all about"_**

**,.,**

**a/n**: Hey guys, multi-chaptered fic here. Updates might be slow, but we'll see how things go. I thought you might enjoy something multi-chaptered during this long absence of Supernatural. Thanks to the lovely **CallYouByYourName** for being my beta for this chapter. She put a lot of hard work into it and I couldn't have done it without her. It would have been a train wreck. Oh, also, most of the chapters won't be this long. I just had a lot of stuff to get out of the way. This chapter started out at around 3,000 words and this version is pushing 7,000 words.

Something to know - Castiel's bits are all in first person throughout the story. Everything else is in third person, somewhat omniscient. Just so you don't get confused later on. (:

**,.,**

_Well I was moving at the speed of sound._  
_Head-spinning, couldn't find my way around, and_  
_Didn't know that I was going down._  
_Where I've been, well it's all a blur._  
_What I was looking for, I'm not sure._  
_Too late and didn't see it coming._

_And then I crashed into you,_  
_And I went up in flames._  
_Could've been the death of me,,_  
_But then you breathed your breath in me._  
_And I crashed into you,_  
_Like a runaway train._  
_You will consume me,_  
_But I can't walk away._

**,.,**

**one**

**,.,**

There was a time before the Winchesters.

The thought brings an amused smile to my lips, for of _course_ there was.

I do not recount it in years so much as a fluid memory tucked into my Grace, untarnished by the passing of time. Every time the memory is unfurled, I sense a cautious control – one I had worked on perfecting since shortly after the beginning of time as humans know it – and realize just how young it is. I was not a soldier in the Beginning so much as a ripple of exaltation, crafted by my Maker. For a long time my brothers and sisters were like that, until word of Lucifer's rebellion penetrated our ranks.

I remember watching Lucifer and Michael patrol the young skies, siblings and best friends, coaxing out the stars and murmuring in awe every time they discovered something new. They had been both young and old, existing in the fabric of My Lord forever and yet, at the same time, all of us were as newborn children. Before time itself, angels had existed in the same essence of God and it was only as He prepared to create the Earth that we were given individual Graces. Michael and Lucifer – God's eldest children – were granted their own Graces first and spent much of their time exploring the unveiling of the planet Earth while the rest of us clustered in Heaven.

Following Lucifer's betrayal, things began to change in Heaven. Garrisons were formally established, and every angel beside those nursing young ones was enlisted. We trained fiercely, told to expect an attack from Hell at any moment. It was through these rigorous exercises that I developed a sense of duty. Underneath Anna, the leader of our garrison, I learned to obey without question. After many centuries of this behavior, I could barely recall a time in which I had not existed to serve a higher power.

Those circumstances made it all the more stunning to my brothers and sisters when I broke rank and began to fall. Only a few angels could see the dangerous road I was treading.

One of these was the Archangel Azrael.

Thinking of Azrael is unbearable now. He was among the first angels that I slaughtered in my need to become a god. I can still feel his Grace fluttering, aching as it bleeds out of him onto the grass, onto my fingertips.

Throughout my stay in Heaven, I had only come in contact with Azrael a few times. As our Father's Angel of Law, Azrael preferred to reside in Third Heaven close to God's side. He only ventured down to First and Second Heavens to visit his mate or to share the Lord's teachings.

One of Azrael's ventures down to Second Heaven occurred not longer after Lucifer's fall and the establishment of the garrisons. The Lord had breathed life into what he named Earth. Anna released our garrison during one of the days of creation and I watched, enraptured, along with my brothers and sisters as my Father separated the waters and dry land on this young planet. We saw the Lord's hand trace each segment of every leaf and the delicate connections of an animal's muscles.

Anna tried to call us back to training at the exact moment that the Lord created mankind but was unsuccessful. None of us could turn away from this latest miracle. I watched the man named Adam draw his first breath, unable to turn away from the incredible sight. Anna sank next to me, equally captivated. I did not understand the purpose of mankind's existence, but I was confident in Our Lord's planning.

It was then, after the creation of mankind, that Azrael summoned all us to him. Many followed the color-infused shine of Azrael's Grace as he led them to a place where he wished to speak. Only those who were preoccupied doing The Lord's Will were not able to seek out Azrael. It was not an opportunity that we wanted to miss.

His voice was like the lingering chords of a musical instrument that ripple across a soul, if I had to describe it according to a human sensation, yet completely different at the same time. Here, in Second Heaven, it is a pulsing along Azrael's Grace that reverberates within the Grace of every angel in Heaven's keeping, not so much words as sensation.

When Azrael gathered us to him, the vibrations of his Grace were singing and his true form was glowing brightly with anticipation. It is impossible to describe what he looked like to humans. How to explain the essence of an angel to such finite beings?

The best description I can give is that of a radiant light in the blue sky, edged in the purest gold. If we take a vessel, inside the heart-place - sidled alongside the human heart - is a soft blue light: a Grace. Our Grace is completely unlike the human heart, yet, curiously, it chooses to reside in the same place - protected by the rib-cage - once we have taken willing vessels.

For humans, the light shining from us is unbearable, but through my eyes it is beautiful. I suppose I must look the same as I always have, though I begin to doubt such an idea whenever my thoughts return to my fallen state and my separation from Heaven.

Azrael shone particularly bright when he spoke to us of the life humans are given, this precious time-table of years in which they exist.

"The Lord has given mankind a finite amount of years in order for them to understand His lesson," he'd intoned, his shadowy wings unfurling behind him. "Once they reach this understanding, humans hold something utterly unique to their species." There he paused, and I swore that he studied me.

"As their days are limited, so these humans understand how precious each moment truly is, for they do not know when their life force will ebb away from them. It is not a peaceful feeling, but it is raw and pure in its own way. It is a feeling many of us can learn from and will come to envy."

My brother Azrael ceased to speak then, and this time I knew for certain that he was looking at me. It took me a moment to place the emotion throbbing tangibly throughout the core of his Grace, but then I understood: _sympathy_, and just a brief glimpse of disappointment.

I would not understand that look until I fell from Heaven, tumbling uncontrollably into the claws of corruption.

It was as though Azrael had already known that I would fall.

**,.,**

Sam and Dean are vacating the motel in which they were staying while investigating the Loony-Tunes accidents in Oklahoma City, mainly because neither brother likes to stay in one place for too long, but also because Sam found a new case in Fleming, Colorado.

"Awesome," Dean grumbles as he packs his things, folding his shirts slowly and laying them on top of the several pairs of crumpled, stained jeans.

"What?" Sam asks, blinking once or twice as he emerges from deep thoughts. His odd behavior earns a concerned glance from Dean. I had also noticed Sam's preoccupation from my invisible position in the corner of the room but hadn't thought much of it. Since the return of the man's soul, Sam has been prone to more self-reflection than usual.

I shift positions in the corner as Dean finishes zipping up his duffel. This is sneakier than I usually prefer, but I had told both brothers that I planned to stay away for a few days - mainly to watch their old mentor, Fred Jones - and don't want to, technically, break my promise.

"Just great. We get to go to another farm," Dean mutters, pulling his bag over his shoulder roughly. "I really get tired of stepping in chicken shit all the time." He shakes his head.

"Gets freaked out by chicken shit, yet loves dealing with demons," Sam mumbles with a little smirk. "Am I the only one who sees something wrong with that?" He pats his brother's shoulder.

Dean shrugs his arm, throwing off Sam's hand. He mumbles something about his brother and fornicating with demons, but it's clear that it is meant more as a joke than anything. Still, Sam's features darken briefly at the memory.

I'm so busy reading the expressions that flit across both brothers' faces that I don't hear much of what they say until they've exited the motel and headed for the Impala.

"You'd think the douche would have called by now," Dean says quietly as he climbs into the driver's seat and I'm paying close attention again. He twists the key in the ignition. "It's not like he has Heavenly obligations. Not now, not after –"

Dean immediately cuts himself off. He clenches his teeth shut against the memory, throwing the car into gear and pulling out before Sam has the chance to fully situate himself, if the startled cry that the younger brother gives is any indication.

"Dean," Sam begins with what is probably going to be a lecture about how busy I am and how I would let them know if anything were to happen to me.

"Don't start," Dean warns, peeling out onto the main road and eyeing the map in his lap. "I just - would it kill him to pick up a damn cell phone?"

My smile fades quickly, the guilt hitting me square in the chest. It seems that no matter what I do, I manage to upset someone, whether it is my Father, my brothers and sisters, or Dean and Sam. The thought is followed by anger. I have given up _everything_ for Dean. I helped him and Sam avert the apocalypse and lost my own life on several occasions keeping the brothers safe and never once has he hunter apologized or bothered to really thank me. He always wants more, always more, and whines the moment that he does not get it. Not once does he stop to think what all of this has done to me, what his refusal to believe in me has caused. And now he has the impudence to lash out the moment I don't appear by his side?

I growl through my teeth, the urge to uncloak myself and scream at Dean until he understands pulsing in my Grace. I force the swirl of emotions back, horrified at them. I had never been like this before meeting the Winchesters. They have brought about changes in myself that I do not know how to deal with.

"You know Cas," Sam attempts to appease his brother as Dean presses down on the gas pedal, making the engine roar. "I'm sure he'll poof in here the moment we're not expecting him."

"I don't _poof_," I mutter indignantly, wings fluttering in agitation.

"Yeah," Dean says unconvincingly, a strain of sadness still present in his voice. I reach out toward his soul with my Grace – something I allow myself much more than I should – and find the same sadness there, slipping among memories of his mother burning on the ceiling, his father leaving without a word, Cassie telling him to leave. It makes me deflate a little, knowing that the main reason Dean behaves in this manner is because of the worry that I'll abandon him like everyone else. The same surprise rolls through me as I realize yet again how much the hunter cares about me, though he might not verbalize it.

Dean's soul senses my fear and unhappiness. It shivers in sympathy, then reaches out and rubs briefly against the edge of my Grace, squeezing once in a sort of hug. I feel remorse radiating from Dean's soul and accept the apology the hunter cannot bring himself to tell me. His soul brightens in return and I smile. Normally Dean's soul is not nearly so eager to show affection, but I attribute it to my absence from his life recently.

I pull myself from Dean's soul and it dims in disappointment. I want to reassure him that I will return, but I know better than to make any promises. Once I have retreated from my Grace and am looking through my vessel's eyes, I search Dean's face. His jaw is still tight with tension but his eyes have softened. My shoulders slump in relief.

As the Impala passes a _"Come visit again!"_ sign, I know that my time with the brothers has come to an end, although I wish it never had to. I have business to attend to and it has been a few hours since I left Fred. Raising my wings until they are fully stretched out, sunlight hitting the streaks of jade in the dark feathers, I take flight.

**,.,**

When I descend into the room in which Fred is staying, I am immediately aware of the change in atmosphere. It feels different without the Winchester brothers by my side; however, it does not bother me as it once did. I feel a certain kind of peace when I am around Sam and Dean, and I feel a different sort of peace when I am not with them.

As I approach Fred, I wipe the strain from my face. The man is by one of the windows, fully relaxed in his wheelchair. His eyes are following the path of a ladybug outside in the garden as it climbs up a rose bush toward one of the leaves. I move a beige chair to his side and take a seat, touching Fred's soul with my Grace as I do so to reveal my presence.

As expected, Fred tenses momentarily, his soul curling back into itself at the foreign intrusion. He rifles through his store of memories until he finds my face and immediately relaxes, smiling slightly in my direction. His eyes never leave the ladybug, but I know that he is studying me out of his peripherals. I incline my head in greeting, tuning into the song in Fred's head. Recently I have changed the songs in Fred's head – according to his wishes – to Debussy, and the melody washes over us comfortingly.

"The light is beautiful here," I say, not looking at Fred but instead focusing on the striking view beyond the window. The fragrance of wildflowers teases my nose even from here. "It pleases you."

Fred's smile widens in response, the song in his head rising in a brilliant crescendo. The chords rush over each other seamlessly.

"I am glad," I tell him, knowing that I am doing little more than stalling. I did wish to make sure that Fred was safe but I have more important business to take care of and should not linger here any longer.

I wish I could tell Fred, tell anyone, _"I do not wish to go."_ But I remind myself that I cannot run anymore. I have made grievous mistakes and must face them.

"_Cas?" _

_Dean._ The familiar voice sounds in my head and my first instinct is to appear in front of him and make sure that everything is alright. My wings flutter in anticipation but I fold them back. It frightens me how eager I am to rush to his side, though it makes a little sense considering that I have not given myself access to Dean's emotional state, save for the moment in the Impala earlier.

Normally I can sense their well-being (or lack thereof) even from this distance – seeing as I have spent so much time with them – but I shut it off when they left for Fleming. I suppose I was afraid of facing them after my conversation with Dean in the motel. He surely has told Sam by now.

"_Cas,"_ Dean's voice snaps once again in my head. He usually sounds like this when he is trying to summon me, like some sort of pet. "_C'mon, man. You know how stupid this makes me feel. Could you just – just get your celestial ass over here, damn it."_ He rattles off coordinates which I promptly force myself to forget, then my head grows silent. I can tell that Dean is worried, though he always tries to hide it from me, just as he tries to hide it from everyone. It makes ignoring him all the more difficult, knowing that Dean is vulnerable and will feel abandoned.

Slowly, I ground myself firmly in the present moment. Nothing has changed. Fred is still sitting in his wheelchair, still staring out the window and smiling absentmindedly to himself. However, the silence is no longer peaceful. My thoughts have mired me in memories of the shiny Impala, of Dean's scowl as he tries not to smile, and Sam's enormous frame taking up more than its fair share in the front seat. The images bleed away as I recognize what I must do.

"Fred," I murmur. He doesn't look at me, but I know that he is listening.

I wheel him over to the TV and put on Loony-Tunes. Fred's mind brightens with recognition, and he hums deep in his chest.

"I must go," I tell him, pressing my hand to his shoulder.

My wings flutter impatiently – they know what must be done, even as I "drag my feet," so to speak – and the breeze of their movement flings the curtains over the window Fred and I were enjoying God's creation from, hiding the garden from view.

I go.

**,.,**

I was not lying to Dean when I told him I had devastated Heaven. From the moment of my ascension into that Great Power, I slaughtered my brothers and sisters mercilessly. I wish that I could say that I felt something in accordance with regret, but I did not, not then.

Now I do. Now the guilt cripples me and it makes it hard for my earthly vessel to draw breath. I remember every detail: crushing my family beneath my feet, the light fading from their Graces as they perished. Before taking James Novak as my vessel, I did not fully understand the meaning of hate. I was still a soldier in God's army then, conditioned to act without a second thought, to accept and to obey. Though I had witnessed Lucifer's rebellion and felt his betrayal as keenly as my other brothers and sisters, I could not comprehend the emotions that Lucifer exhibited. However, through Jimmy's memories, I soon learned just what hate was, and how it felt. Now it shifts underneath my skin like slow-moving venom, self-loathing infiltrating every pore of my being.

I stand on the peak of one of the hills of First Heaven now, looking out over the wide expanse. This part of First Heaven has been molded to replicate part of Earth; when souls first pass into Heaven, they are brought to this place to experience their best memories and to adjust. From here, they can also see their loved ones down on Earth. Once they have taken the time to adjust, most souls transition to Third Heaven, across from the Lord's dwelling. Some of my brothers and sisters took affront to humans inhabiting the same expanse of Heaven as God when most of us are not granted the same opportunity, but it was determined practical in the end. Not only does God takes great pleasure in watching them, but First and Second Heavens are primarily occupied by angels and human souls are not built to survive in the presence of pure angelic Grace.

As I stand on the hilltop, one of the Carriers brings a new soul to First Heaven. The guardian angel gently places the soul on the ground. Then, wrapping her Grace around the soul, the angel _flares_ brightly and the soul awakens from the deep slumber that is necessary to transport them here, violently knocking itself against the sides of the Grace surrounding it. I watch with a little smile on my vessel's lips, reminded of Dean's defiant nature. Humans are so strange.

The angel's Grace caresses the soul and I know that she is soothing her human charge, helping them adjust from an earthly body to a heavenly one. After a time, the soul ceases to fight the angel and grows warm, brightening until it is absolutely radiant. The angel pulls her Grace away, allowing the soul to roam free. The soul bounds in the air joyfully, spinning around the angel's Grace and hugging her repeatedly. Then it stills. The soul and the angel hold a silent conversation, pulsing close together, and I realize that the angel is saying goodbye. She will return to Second Heaven for a time and then one of the Shining Ones – our superiors who report directly to God – will assign her a new human charge.

The soul hugs the angel once more, its radiant light fading to gentle warmth, and then flits away into the line of trees in the distance. There it will face its happiest memories before ascending to Third Heaven. The Carrier is left behind, staring at the tree line as her Grace hums with sad acceptance. _She'll miss her charge_, I realize, my Grace pulsing in sympathy. It is certainly understandable. Carriers are destined to guard humans throughout their lifetime, transporting them to Heaven after their death. They can develop a deep bond with their charge; it seems impossible that they wouldn't miss them after the soul went to Third Heaven. This Carrier might meet her human charge again, but the chances are unlikely.

I think of the Winchesters then, my vessel's brow furrowing. As far as I am aware, every human soul is given a Guardian, but I have never seen any Carriers associated with Dean and Sam thus far. Although Guardians can cloak themselves, they often choose not to. God gifted Guardians with an innate desire to be close to their human charge. This desire for intimacy often overrules any fear that might keep a Guardian cloaked. Even still, I ought to have been able to sense a brother or sister if they were guarding the brothers.

_Unless I am – _

_No_, I determine, shooting that idea down immediately. Every angel was given a specific job from the moment of their creation and I would have been told about guardianship the instant my Grace was established.

I am so caught up in my thoughts that I do not realize the Carrier has moved until she is right beside me and I can see every facet of her true form through the human manifestation she has donned. Her wings are breathtaking, shimmering with Heavenly light as they flutter. She stares at me through enlarged pupils, the icy gray of her irises nearly swallowed up in black. She's wearing jeans and a red blouse – probably to appear less threatening to her human charge – and I admire the careful design in her earthly manifestation.

'_Brother_,' she says softly, the manifestation fading away until all that's left is pure Grace.

'_Hello sister_,' I respond cautiously, surprised that she has not sounded an alarm or thrust me from Heaven herself. Everyone knows of my horrendous deeds. '_I am sorry for your loss.' _

It's an expression I've heard Dean and Sam say on multiple occasions to grieving family members and I figure that it is appropriate here.

_'It is how it is meant to be,'_ she says, her wistfulness fading. Amusement takes its place as she takes in the state of my Grace, reading my emotions and thoughts. I bristle slightly at the intrusion, unused to it after spending time on Earth, and her Grace throbs with surprise.

'_Sister_,' I begin hesitantly, letting her see the depths of my regret about my time as God.

She shifts away from me before I can finish, heading toward the Gates through which I can see the outline of Second Heaven.

_'Careful, brother,'_ she says just before disappearing. I can sense more amusement in her Grace and it confuses me. _'You're turning human on us.' _

I open my mouth to ask her what she means by that, as it appears to be both an innocent comment and a threat, but she cuts me off again. Shuffling through my memories, she picks one and presents it to me. I flinch at the sight of my vessel beating Dean until he's on the floor, bleeding and half-unconscious, regret flooding through me, though I know it is the words she is trying to get me to see.

_"I rebelled for _this_? So that you could surrender to _them_? I gave _everything_ for you and this is what you give to me?" _The words strike me like fists. I still remember that night, every emotion raging inside of me. I remember Dean's soft skin breaking under my touch, blood staining my fists when I pulled back.

_'You wanted to know why I did not turn you in,'_ my sister says gently. I didn't ask her, but she's seen the question in my thoughts. There are no secrets here.

I raise my head shakily, eardrums still burning.

_'Because you sacrificed everything for the human you love,'_ the Guardian says.

She slips through the gates and I am alone.

**,.,**

Once I have taken a few moments to compose myself, I stretch my wings and ascend to Second Heaven, my vessel's shoes sinking into soft grass. Like before, the Watcher at the Gates is not present, though he was when the Carrier left my side. Someone must be allowing my presence, I determine. Perhaps one of the archangels, as they have the authority; I know it could not be the Lord, not after my rebellion.

Here, everything is brighter than First Heaven, flooded with angelic Grace. The blades of grass under my feet whisper secrets given by my brothers and sisters. The air is electric, sizzling with Grace. The reason for this is the Grace sharing my siblings take part in. Because Grace sharing involves the atmosphere of Heaven itself, the air is left threaded with Grace afterward. Were a human soul to venture into Second Heaven, the exposure of angelic Grace would quickly deteriorate the tolerance souls have against angelic Grace until the soul combusted.

Angels swarm to engage in Grace sharing throughout the whole of Second Heaven, an activity I have never participated in. Grace sharing is an intimate activity; intense does not begin to describe it. It consists of multiple angels merging their Graces with one other and with the Heavens around them. For a few moments, their Graces become one and there are no secrets. If I were to compare it to a human notion, I would say that it resembles sex. Instead of focused on the physical, however, Grace sharing concentrates on spiritual oneness.

It is not mandatory to participate in a Grace sharing, but many consider it enjoyable. The reason behind my refusal is rather simple: I cannot fathom the level of trust behind Grace sharing and, frankly, I have no wish to participate in such a large group, not with something so intimate. I love my brothers and sisters, but I do not desire that kind of intimacy with them. I have never longed for it, not since I saw the grief-stricken expression on Michael's face as he was betrayed by his closest brother and was forced to cast Lucifer into the Pit.

In Enochian, the name given to this valley I stand in speaks of a place permanently stained with the blood of innocents. The closest human term is Desecration. It was named differently before I slaughtered my brothers and sisters here. It is whispered among the angels that God himself renamed it to remind all others of the power of corruption.

Kneeling, I trace the edge of an imprint with trembling fingers. They are everywhere, burned into the ground. Angel's wings leave permanent marks after their deaths. Here, the earth itself can barely be seen, buried as it is underneath the scores of black remnants. I feel sick, and that blackness swirls inside of me, clawing and ripping and pulling me down, _down_. There are no words to describe the pain.

I can hear the flutter of distant wings then and I know that they are coming for me. I am surprised it took them this long. Somewhat relieved to depart from the horrors in front of me, I take to the skies - tearing through the veil between Heaven and Earth - and reappear on the coast of Florence. Finding my way to one of many Italian inns, I book a room from a man whose heart is heavy and whose lungs report copious amounts of smoke. I peel out a few bills I'd taken from Dean's wallet and transformed into Italian currency. Handing them over, I pay for three nights. The windows in my room are tinted and there is a queen bed with navy blue sheets. There is a TV in the corner, but I do not turn it on. Instead, I stand in the middle of the room as tears well in my eyes and sting my cheeks, feeling the warmth seep from the room as night falls. I wish that I needed sleep. Rather, I have the privilege of tending to my thoughts constantly.

My emotions feel shockingly human. In this moment, I do not appreciate the feelings or the irony. After everything I've striven to gain, after everything I've given up to get to here, I wish I could feel nothing.

**,.,**

Several days pass. I emerge from my room once, walking slowly throughout Florence until I reach one of many well-known galleries. A few people look up and start at the sight of me. I know that the tumultuous nature of my feelings must be apparent in my eyes and do not blame the humans for reacting in such a manner. Thankfully, most of the people admiring the artwork ignore my presence and I soon lose myself in some of my favorite paintings.

Even before I took my first vessel, I had loved to visit Florence whenever I could. I have found that it has a calming influence on me. It's been a long time since my last journey here, and as I meander through different works, I feel myself relax. I have missed this retreat.

I find myself most drawn to Botticelli's _Nascita di Venere_. _The Birth of Venus_ is certainly a beautiful work of art but I hover over it today, searching every crevice of the painting as though it will unearth some truth I've been longing to find. Botticelli's painting shows three women, one being carried by an angel and straining toward the other two, one covering her nudity and one clothed in brilliant colors, reaching for a strand of the middle woman's hair. The woman are identical, meant to represent the goddess Venus. However, the longer that I spend studying the painting, it appears that they are separate individuals in their own right, bonded together in some manner; they are more powerful together, the painting reveals, yet able to remain separate. This conclusion troubles me, though I do not know why.

Eventually, I depart and return to my motel room, slightly calmer than before. My Grace is still trembling within me, but not as uncontrollably as before. I think back to the feelings that have been growing inside of me since my return from Perdition. It is mainly the same feeling, the dangerous whisper that a worthless, corrupted angel such as I does not deserve to live. It is not my thought. The darkness has put it there and laughs as I drown in it. Knowing this does not make the feelings disappear, however. I still feel as pathetic and helpless as a newborn.

After much deliberation, I come to the conclusion that I cannot do this on my own. I pull my phone from my pocket, pressing the first number on speed-dial and hold the device up against my vessel's right ear. Only after it rings for the third time do I realize that it has grown quite late back in the United States and both brothers are most likely asleep.

"Cas?" Dean's voice is rough, as though he's been missing sleep. It isn't unusual for him, but still causes a spark of worry within me.

"Hello Dean," I murmur softly, surprised that he actually has my number saved in his phone.

There are distant mumbles on Dean's end of the line, probably Sam, awake and wanting to know what is going on. Then Dean hisses, "Where the hell have you been, Cas? I've been praying for you to show up for the last week and a half. Was the signal bad or something?"

Apparently, more time has passed than I'd expected.

"I am doing what I must," I answer simply, restraining the tears. They have been spilling incessantly from me lately, and I don't need to burden Dean with the knowledge of my pain. But they make my voice waver, and Dean exhales slowly on the other end. He's heard it.

"Your obligation is to me and Sam," Dean argues, tension in his voice, but he isn't really angry. "Remember the whole hunter thing? Ring a bell?"

I can feel a tear rolling down my cheek. Images of broken wings and pleading cries from my brothers and sisters ring in my ears, cloud my eyes. The sensation is highly unpleasant.

"Do not treat me as a child," I say, allowing a hint of irritation to seep into my tone. A breath whistles through my lips. "You know that I have many duties besides the two of you." My voice softens then. "I will return to you when I can." Some part of me wishes that he'd demand my presence right now. At least then I'd have an excuse for crawling back to them after I've failed them so many times.

There is a silence, in which I know that both Dean and I are remembering my words from the motel room - "_I caused a lot of suffering on Earth, but I devastated Heaven. If I see what Heaven's become, what I – what I made of it…I'm afraid I might kill myself." _They werewords spoken in a moment of pure desperation. I knew that I shouldn't have told Dean, because I ended up hurting him. But in that moment, terrified, I needed someone to cling onto, and Dean was the only one I trusted to keep my secret.

I had not intended to share my intense desire to end my life with Dean, as there is no possible way for humans to understand it. Human beings do experience thoughts of suicide – I'd watched too many broken souls spending their last minutes on Earth from my post in my garrison to doubt this – but they do not come close to angelic levels of hopelessness. As an eternal being with a wide range of emotions, most of which are not present in the human mind, the conscious want for death weighs much more heavily. It is an act that defies the very foundation of angelic existence and throws every gift back to the Lord from which they were given. It requires an utter loss of oneself, and a pain much deeper than exists on Earth.

By my side, an angel blade rests, pristine. I had taken it from Heaven's treasury during my visit though I can barely remember doing it now. The darkness croons inside of me, urging me to wrap my hands about the weapon and plunge it into my vessel's chest, releasing me from this prison of existence and memory, shattering me into nothingness. It is hard to resist. _Patience_, I breathe soundlessly to myself.

"Cas," Dean says, voice gruffer than before. "If you're thinking about – don't."

Only one word, but it steals the breath from my vessel. I rise to a sitting position and the tip of the angel blade pokes my leg through my pants. There is a sharp, stinging sensation.

"Cas?"

"Yes?" I murmur as I rise up and remove my trench coat, lying it down on the bed.

"We'll figure something out, like we always do," says Dean. "Promise me that you'll come find us so we can help, Cas. Otherwise I'll hunt you down right now."

I do not want to promise Dean anything. Even his presence will not vaporize these thoughts dragging me down. Also, I cannot bear the idea of the hunter sitting beside me, watching me die by my own hand. But I do not share my reluctance, because no matter how impenetrable Dean might claim to be, I've known for a long time that he's as broken as I am. It would not be wise to disclose every detail.

"I will find you and Sam, soon," I lie, and flip my phone closed. Dean will be angry, but I cannot bother to worry about his fleeting emotions in this moment.

Setting the device on the bed beside the silver blade, I crack open the window by the door leading outside and gaze up at the skies. Heaven is not visible from here – it is not even up there at all, as most humans seem to believe – but the thought of the heavens brings peace to my vessel's heart, to me.

With a little sigh, I unfurl my wings. The ceiling light flickers and goes out as my wings wrap about the room, and I run my fingers over the dark plumage thoughtfully.

_Don't_. It is amusing how such a simple word from a human keeps me tethered to this realm more than my duty as an Angel of the Lord. Even still, the dark thoughts return, and my wings shudder as the shadows seep through me. Reaching over, I pluck the blade from the bed. My fingers wrap around its hilt, and I stare at it for a long moment. The phone begins to buzz again, rumbling against the bed-sheets, but I ignore it.

_Don't. _

"Not today," I tell myself softly, relaxing despite the depths of my distress. I run my eyes over the room's contents, determining whether anything is out of place before I go. I no longer have need of this constraining space.

And that is when I feel it, echoing through my Grace, molten-hot; fury in all its glory.

The door shatters into thousands of specks, coating the floor. An aura of light, brighter than I have ever seen in all of my existence, steps through the doorway, and I squint.

'_Hello, Castiel_,' a venomous voice whispers through my Grace.

I am thrown against the wall by a force much greater in strength than my own. The light moves toward me, and the air hums with its presence.

'_I have been waiting for a long time to meet you_, _brother_,' the voice says.

I catch a glimpse of eyes as black as the Pit.

Then – pain, rippling across my vessel's chest, a burning deep inside of me. It is an agony I have never known.

I begin to scream.


	2. two

_One track mind,_

_one track heart,_

_if I fail _

_I'll fall apart; _

_Maybe it is all a test, _

_cause I feel like I'm the worst,_

_so I always act like I'm the best. _

_I know exactly what I want,_

_and who I want to be,_

_I know exactly why _

_I walk and talk like a machine;_

_I'm now becoming _

_my own self-fulfilled prophecy. _

_- Oh No!; Marina and the Diamonds_

**,.,**

two

**,.,**

Sterling, Colorado

**,.,**

Just as Dean finishes filling up the Impala, Sam emerges from the Mini-Mart adjacent to the gas station with several plastic bags looped about his wrists, full of stuff. As he approaches the car, Sam maneuvers his arm until he can reach into one of the bags and pulls out two beers. He holds them out and Dean takes one with a little nod of acknowledgement. Twisting the cap off, Dean takes a sip. He makes a face.

"This is all they had?" Dean asks, shaking his head until the world ceases to swim in front of him.

"Afraid so," Sam answers apologetically. "I'm kind of scared to try it now." He retreats back to the side of the Impala and opens the side door, gently depositing the bags inside.

Dean shrugs, giving his brother a strange look before sliding into the driver's seat. Taking another sip of his beer, he places it in the cup holder. "You shouldn't be surprised by now. You're the one that keeps buying the stuff. What is it with you and cheap beer anyway?"

"Uh, maybe the fact that it's cheap?" Sam responds as if Dean should know this already. He folds himself into the passenger seat, grimacing as his legs press against the front of the dash.

"There's nothing wrong with buying the good stuff once in awhile," Dean says. "Remember: unlimited money." He waves his wallet at Sam as if to prove his point before folding it back into his pocket.

"You know how I feel about the credit card scams," Sam says, face twisting as he takes a sip of his own beer. The weird green and orange pattern on the bottle is terribly outrageous. Maybe it was designed that way in order to discourage potential buyers. "I just think we should save our money for important things."

"Beer _is_ important," Dean retorts, looking positively offended. Inwardly, he's thankful for the distraction that these interactions with Sam provide. He needs it after last night.

The elder Winchester slots the key into the ignition and twists it, smiling as the engine comes to life, snarling.

"I thought it's the pie you consider invaluable."

Some jackass in a minivan honks repeatedly from behind them, and, with a sneer, Dean pulls away from the gas pump and guides the Impala onto the main road.

"You can't compare the two, Sammy," Dean says. "They're in two totally different categories."

Sam raises his eyebrows at that, but Dean ignores it, reaching for one of his Led Zeppelin tapes – the one that Sam hates listening to - and inserting it. The opening chords of _Stairway to Heaven_ fill the car, and Dean's face smoothes out. He smiles. Music never fails to cheer him up; he's usually at his happiest in the Impala with either Led Zeppelin or Metallica pounding through the stereos.

"Well," Sam says, "I guess I can't feel guilty for getting you this then." He reaches back and pulls a little box with rainbow designs on the sides from one of the bags. "Here," he says, tossing it to Dean.

Dean's face lights up.

"You brought me pie," he breathes with a huge smile.

Scratch that: He's at his happiest in the Impala with his music and _pie – _maybe even with Sammy in the passenger seat, if he's not being a pain in the ass.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Dean tears at the plastic wrapping around the box. He sticks at it relentlessly until finally he's able to open the box and stare his prize in the face.

"Am I forgiven for the cheap beer?" Sam asks, raising his beer in the air. He winces as Dean reaches out and turns up the music.

Again, Dean ignores his brother. He tilts his head to the side - lips pursed - and then shoves a chunk of apple pie in his mouth, practically purring as he chews.

"I'll take that as a yes," Sam determines with a smile. He takes another sip of his drink and, in a move far too automatic, runs a hand through his mane of hair, ruffling it.

"Absolutely," Dean mumbles, almost incoherently, around the pie in his mouth. He wipes the back of his hand across his face, brushing crumbs off. As he does so, Dean's eyes un-focus for a minute. The cell phone in his pocket burns as if to remind him of the phone call last night and even the pie can't rid him of the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

All too soon he finishes devouring his pie. Dean eyes the empty box sadly before closing it and dumping it on the floor by Sam's foot.

"So where are we off to now?" Dean asks, rubbing at his face once more. Sam hasn't said anything in the last few minutes, which is strange enough in itself. However, Dean's too enraptured by the taste of apple pie on his tongue to care as much as usual.

"Um," Sam says, "Garth called about a nest in Northern Texas…"

Lost in the purr of the engine, Dean doesn't really hear the rest of what Sam is saying. He yawns, the motion accentuating the dark bags under his eyes. Last night they'd actually not been in a hurry to get anywhere. Without a hunt, they could actually relax. Sam had bought a six pack of a different kind of cheap beer from the liquor store down the street from the motel and when he returned, Dean had already started watching his favorite Godzilla film. Dean doesn't remember the details, only that he'd finally collapsed on his bed – still fully dressed - sometime later that night, twisting to avoid the crushed cans on top of the sheets. He'd only barely begun to doze off when his phone began to ring.

Dean exhales slowly, Sam's voice fading into the background. He shouldn't have gotten so messed up last night. His dad had taught him better: keep alert, shoot first and ask questions later, and protect Sammy. If something supernatural had burst into their motel room, Dean isn't sure that he'd have been able to do much. Even now, his head is pounding. Honestly, he's surprised that he managed to answer his phone at all, considering how messed up he was.

_The sound of Metallica shatters the silence. _

_Through the pounding in his head, Dean manages to register that it is his phone that's making the noise. He groans, rolling over and trying to ignore it. The sound of sheets moving on the other end of the room reminds him that he's not alone. 'Can't wake up Sammy', is Dean's first thought. It's been drilled into him by this point._

_He reaches for the phone where it sits, lit up, on the edge of the nightstand. It takes several tries – fingers scuttling across the polished surface – before Dean manages to grab the damn thing. He rubs his eyes with his free hand, bringing the phone up to read the Caller ID. If this isn't something related to an important hunt, he'll be throwing punches in the morning. _

_It's Cas. _

_Dean stiffens, sitting up in bed and cupping the phone between his palms. Sam mumbles something that Dean can't make out. _

"_Shh, it's okay," Dean murmurs soothingly, stumbling out of his bed. He presses the phone to his ear._

"_Cas?" Dean's voice is little more than a hoarse whisper, thanks to their impromptu celebration last night. He reminds himself never to indulge in so much alcohol again. _

_Sam is still mumbling under his breath, but he sounds barely conscious. Dean sends a couple more reassurances his brother's way before heading toward the door. He doesn't bother slipping on his shoes. _

_The cold air hits him like a punch. Dean hardly registers the fact that he's shivering, too busy pressing the phone as tightly as he can get it to his ear. _

_ "Hello, Dean." _

_The familiar, gravelly tone eases an ache within Dean that the hunter hadn't bothered to address. He sighs in relief, relaxing for a moment. Then he's overwhelmed by anger. _

_ "Where the hell have you been, Cas?" Dean hisses, leaning back against the wall of the motel next to the door. "I've been praying for you to show up for the last week and a half. Was the signal bad or something?" _

_ "I am doing what I must," the angel responds, something off with his voice. _

_So he's still as cryptic as ever. Normally it's endearing, but this time it only serves to enrage Dean further. He's about ask the angel – scathingly – if he's run out of minutes again when the odd note in Castiel's voice reaches him. It sounds like his friend is on the brink of tears, something that Dean has only witnessed once before in the whole time he's known the angel. _

_ Dean sighs as his anger is overtaken by fear. There isn't any need to upset Cas anymore, not after everything he's already been through. The angel's fragile enough as it is. _

_ "Your obligation is to me and Sam," Dean snaps. "Remember the whole hunter thing? Ring a bell?" If he had a uterus, Dean would be pleading with the angel to return, both to assure Castiel's safety and because he misses him more than he'd ever expected to. _

_ "Do not treat me as a child," Cas responds, voice chilly. "You know I have many duties besides the two of you." _

_Dean flinches. He hasn't heard the angel say something so high and mightily since his short lived reign as God. It brings memories forward that Dean isn't ready to deal with yet. _

_Castiel's voice softens then as if he's aware that he has hurt Dean. _

_ "I will return to you when I can," Cas says gently. _

'_No, you need to get your ass over here now,' Dean wants to say. He watched Cas fall apart in front of him in that motel room, revealing a part of himself Dean doesn't think anyone has ever seen. If Cas can manage to trust him with that, then why is he staying away now? All Dean wants to do is protect him, and Cas can't even give him that chance. Unless…_

_ He wouldn't, Dean tries to reassure himself. He wouldn't kill himself. Surely things haven't gotten that bad. Only, Dean knows that they have. He saw the fathomless depths of pain through the tears in his friend's eyes and it was enough to scare him then. Now, Dean's terrified that he's too late to save Cas, all because he didn't try hard enough. He just let Sam interrupt them. Dean should've found Cas after the case was over and discovered some way to make the angel understand his worth. _

_ "Cas," Dean manages as his throat closes up. "If you're thinking about – don't." Please don't. _

_There is silence on the angel's end. _

_ "Cas?" Dean growls, desperate for an answer. _

_ "Yes?" Cas answers slowly. _

_Dean's head goes blank. He doesn't know the words to say to make this all okay. He's never known what to say when it comes to Cas. What can he possibly say as a pitiful human being to an Angel of the Lord that will make a difference? Dean tries to think of what he'd say if this were Sammy. _

_ "We'll figure something out, like we always do," Dean murmurs. "Promise me that you'll come find us so we can help, Cas. Otherwise I'll hunt you down right now." _

_There is another long bout of silence. Dean's fingers dig into the phone, scratching his ear. _

_ "I will find you and Sam soon," Cas says. _

_Dean opens his mouth to answer but is met with the sound of the dial tone. His jaw works silently as he tries to come to terms with what has just happened but the fog in his brain isn't helping matters. _

_ He pulls the phone away and skims through the buttons quickly until he reaches speed-dial, punching the number in the second position, underneath Sam's. It rings over and over, eventually connecting to Cas's bumbling voicemail. _

_Dean hisses, the sound cutting off as he chokes on a mouthful of cold air. _

_ 'Damn it, Cas', he thinks, squeezing the phone in his palm as he prepares to call again. 'I've already failed everyone else. Don't let me fail you too.' _

"Uh, Dean?" Sam says. "You missed the turn."

The memory splinters in front of him. Dean blinks in surprise, hoping that there aren't any tears in his eyes. The last thing he needs is more stabs at his masculinity.

"What'd you say?" he asks through the remaining wisps of his memory.

"You missed the turn," Sam repeats slowly, as though Dean is a child determined not to learn his ABCs. "What's up with you today? You're…"

"Nothing," Dean says before his brother can begin to think of the possibilities. The last thing he needs is Sam getting all morally supportive. "Just didn't sleep so well last night."

Sam gives him an odd look. "You never sleep well," he points out, reaching over to turn down the stereo. Dean slaps his hand away.

"I was listening to that," he growls, cranking up the volume until Sam's wincing back into his seat. The Impala begins shaking with the force of the song, thrumming along with the bass, and it drowns out the thoughts beginning to creep across Dean's consciousness.

That is, until Sam shoots forward and slams his hand over the volume control, turning off the music completely. Dean's ears ring with the sudden silence.

"What the hell was that?" Dean asks quietly, his voice layered with something dangerous he knows Sam will pick up on.

Instead of turning back on the music and saving himself in the process, Sam keeps his hand firmly on the control. "We need to talk," he says with a fierce look up at Dean.

"Don't be a bitch," Dean retorts. He reaches out to turn back on the music, but Sam swats his fingers away.

"Don't be a jerk, then," Sam says.

Dean tries to breathe through the rage building up in his chest, bringing with it an indescribable tightness. His fingers scramble uselessly on the steering wheel for a moment and the Impala jerks to the right. Honks sound behind them.

"Son of a bitch," Dean curses, yanking the Impala back into the middle of the road. "Sam, just let it go." He isn't exactly sure what _it_ is, but it must be semi important if Sam is willing to have a heart-to-heart over it. Though, by the molten hot tendrils creeping up his throat and across the backs of his eyes, Dean is pretty sure that the thing he's trying to bury is more than a little important to him. It might even be the same thing that's currently giving Dean the intense desire to chuck his cell phone out the window. _Damn it_.

"No," Sam says.

One of Dean's lungs feels as if it has been punctured. He sighs heavily.

"Fine," Dean grunts, releasing his death grip on the wheel. "What's bothering you now?"

"You," Sam snaps.

"Look dude," Dean begins, hoping it will cool Sam down, "it's not that you're not attractive in your own geeky, moose-like way, but I don't-"

"Dean," Sam says darkly, ignoring Dean's attempt at humor. He continues to glare angrily at his brother.

Has Sam really not realized by now how unmanly these tear-felt heart-to-hearts are?

"Dude, I'm really not-" Dean begins, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road. Suddenly the broken yellow line separating the lanes seems fascinating.

"You're obviously upset about something and I think we both know what that is," Sam snaps, cutting him off.

"I think you've been watching too much Doctor Sexy," Dean says, wondering briefly when the last time was that he watched Doctor Sexy. The show kind of lost its appeal after Gabriel trapped them in it to play his little game.

"Don't do that," Sam growls. "You're worried sick about Cas, Dean. Just admit it!"

"Like I said," Dean mutters, flexing his fingers, "too much reality TV."

"I think you know exactly why he hasn't gotten in contact with us," Sam barrels on.

Dean gives his brother a curious look.

"Do you now," Dean says. It's hard to force away his emotions, but Dean does it anyway, thinking of soul-sucking monsters and hotel rooms until his face draws tight. He turns his head just slightly, staring down Sam with impenetrable green eyes until Sam is forced to look away.

"He called you," Sam figures out after a minute of mumbling to himself. "The call last night, when you left the motel…?"

Dean nods, just barely. His jaw tightens.

"Would you mind telling me _why _he called?" Sam asks grouchily when Dean says nothing about the matter. "You know, Dean, I care about Cas too. I might not have a profound_ bond_ like you two, but you can't -"

"He was just checking in," Dean murmurs over Sam, focusing on keeping his tone flat even as heat climbs up his neck. "He said he had some things to take care of." The thought of the phone call sends a lump to rest in Dean's throat. He swallows, trying to dismiss it.

"Then why do you look so devastated?" Sam wonders quietly.

"Who paid you to be my therapist," is all that Dean can manage.

Dean has no desire to speak about Cas, nor the capability. His throat feels raw and the lump is crawling up his throat, making his eyes itch. All he can do is keep driving and thinking, always thinking. This is the one thing that Sam doesn't seem to understand: forcing Dean to talk about his problems, especially when they're regarding people he cares about, does absolutely nothing but make Dean dig his heels in. Sam needs to learn to shut up once in awhile.

Dean grits his teeth. The engine hums as he presses down roughly on the gas pedal.

Thankfully, Sam appears to sense Dean's unwillingness to fill in the details and drops it for once. They fall into a tense silence.

Predictably, Dean begins to fidget after about ten minutes. He's always hated long stretches of silence, usually because it means that Sam is pouting. It shouldn't bother him so much, considering that he's grown up learning how to move in a way that's practically silent – a useful tool to utilize during hunts – and often finds himself appreciating the quiet moments he's given.

A quick look out of Dean's peripherals proves that Sam is, in fact, sulking. He's got the full on puppy dog face going. Dean pointedly turns his full attention to the road. His little brother doesn't need to get his way every time. He already folds enough as it is to make Sam happy.

Several more minutes pass and Sam's still keeping up the puppy dog face. Only, at this point, Sam has decided to make his eyes water even more profusely until it looks like Dean's refusal to talk has absolutely devastated his brother.

_Damn him. Damn this job. Damn nonexistent self-esteem. _

"Would you stop with that?" Dean asks, his voice sharp as he gestures pointedly to the expression on Sam's face.

"What is so important that you can't tell me?" Sam retorts quietly, turning his giant frame until he's twisted in Dean's direction. "I mean, I get it if it's not my business. I just – Dean, it's obvious how much Cas means to you, and if something's wrong I want to help lighten the load." His tone is so genuine that Dean finds himself deflating without his permission.

"You can't," Dean says, but the fire has disappeared from his voice, extinguished in the wake of Sam's watery eyes. He goes to take a breath and it's shaky.

Sam waits patiently, his eyes moony, round with sympathy.

"A few weeks ago, when you were out investigating the Loony-Toon accidents," Dean murmurs before he can convince himself otherwise, his voice flat, "Cas and I had a conversation in the motel room we were staying at." Dean swallows. A reflection of Castiel's blue eyes dances across the windshield.

"He told me…" The words are stuck in his throat, and the more that Dean struggles to drag them up, the more the ache grows in his chest, until it is nearly unbearable. "Cas told me he might kill himself."

"Oh," Sam says gently, instantly Mr. Sympathetic. "Dean, I-"

"Don't _oh Dean_ me," Dean snaps. His eyes are really beginning to sting. He squints, refusing to let himself be taken over by the tidal wave of thoughts and emotions.

"We need to go find him," Sam says. He turns back in his seat and dives for the pile of papers at his feet again, dragging the map out from under pictures of pagan gods. "Where did he say he was?"

_I don't know._ The thought stops Dean cold. Castiel rarely calls unless he is asking for coordinates and the knowledge that the fallen angel could be anywhere in the world, possibly preparing for his death…

_No, that doesn't matter_, Dean tells himself sternly. If Cas doesn't want to be around him and Sam, that's his choice. There isn't any use whining over the angel's autonomy now, of all times. Dean has never questioned Castiel's other responsibilities before and he really doesn't have a right to now, despite the acute longing to find Cas lodged into the pit of Dean's stomach. _God, I sound like an insecure girlfriend. _

"No," Dean says coldly, half-surprised that he's actually spoken aloud.

Sam looks confused. "But this is Cas we're-"  
"No," Dean says again. "Cas said he'll find us when he can. Until then, we're on our own." He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "Now, how about we haul our asses into Texas and bury those sons of bitches?"

Dean's eyes stare down his brother, cold as steel, almost daring Sam to defy his wishes. At least then he'll have an excuse to go off the deep end. After a minute, Sam nods, and again the two brothers fall into an uncomfortable silence.

"So, what do we have?" Dean asks once he's had a sufficient amount of time to calm down. His nerves still feel frayed, but at least he has control over his face.

"Um," Sam begins distractedly, looking like he's just been hit with a pan.

"About the case," Dean clarifies, annoyed. The kid needs to pick up the pace. Usually he's on top of this research stuff.

_Regardless_, Dean thinks, _I should at least play nice_. A heavy sigh escapes from him.

"Right," Sam says, chuckling flatly. He shakes his head and begins to ruffle through the papers at his feet.

"Seems like our sort of thing," Sam continues once he's collected the papers. He sounds a little more like himself. "One week ago everything is fine and then _bam_. Three people go missing consecutively, each one the day after the last."

"Anything these people have in common?" Dean wonders.

Sam shrugs and says, "As far as I can tell, nothing. One guy, mid-forties, a teenage from the local high school, and a soccer mom…the only thing they appear to have in common is the last place they were seen."

"What's that?" Dean asks, releasing his tight grip on the steering wheel and relaxing his facial muscles.

"A gardening shop a few miles from the main part of the town."

Dean's eyebrows furrow.

"That's a little out of the way to go for a few hoes," Dean says, smiling at his own innuendo, if a little distantly. "And Garth said that he thought it was a nest causing all the trouble? Does he know how many we're dealing with?"

"Um, no, he didn't say," Sam says, reading through one of the pages.

"Well, that's just _awesome_," Dean comments, mouth twisting in a sarcastic smirk. "What's the quickest way to get there?"

"Let me see," Sam mutters under his breath, studying what looks to be a map somewhere in the middle of the stack of papers. After a second, he snaps his fingers and says, "We're headed toward the 287, yeah?"

"I guess," Dean says. "Can't see a damn thing out here." He flips on his headlights, illuminating the single-lane road. They're the only car out here, so far as he can tell. It would be creepy if they weren't used to dealing with things that lurk in the night.

"Okay," Sam says after another minute. "Keep on the 287. When you see the 54, head west. It should run by the town." He points to the speck on the map which reads _Channing_ in tiny black letters.

Dean nods to let Sam know that he understands.

"Alright then," he says, giving Sam a genuine smile this time, "I'm gonna need another beer. Please tell me you bought a six pack."

Sam grins back, reaching toward the back seat.

"Actually," the younger Winchester answers, "I bought two."

**,.,**

A few hours and more than enough bathroom stops later, the boys reach the outskirts of Channing. Dean is beginning to feel a strange burning sensation in his pubic area and figures that he must've touched poison ivy while taking a dump earlier. He's still cursing to himself when Sam pulls the Impala into a parking spot in front of the town's motel. The glowing light of the sign nearly blinds both of them. The hotel is decorated with crappy decals and several inflatable fish which stare unflinchingly at the boys.

"Who would name a motel _Vaporous Springs_?" Dean grumbles as they head into the main office. Sam shushes him and flashes the hotel clerk what he hopes is a warm smile.

"We need a room for the next couple of days," Sam says politely.

The clerk rubs his bald scalp; his blue eyes narrow as he assesses them.

At last he asks, "One bed or two?"

Dean grits his teeth and mutters something along the lines of _do I look like a raging homosexual _as he makes his way over to the other end of the room, glancing over a wall of what appear to be owners.

"Two," Sam says, flushing.

The clerk sets them up with a first floor room for ninety bucks a night, cash only. As they're heading out, Dean points to the wall he'd been at earlier and says, "Bad economy, huh?"

"A lot of deaths in the family," the clerk answers as he rises from his seat. "My grandfather-" he points to one of the black and white photos, "got crushed by a meat grinder, and my mom, she-"

Dean turns to Sam and they share a wide-eyed look.

"That's a shame," Dean says before the clerk can continue his story. With a fake, glittering smile toward the clerk, Dean grabs Sam by the arm and hurries out of the office. "Yeah, not creepy at all," he mutters as he heads toward the car, twirling his keys around his pointer finger.

"Do you think that's wise?" Sam asks. "The car is rather conspicuous. We're only supposedly dead mass murderers."

Dean glowers at him, patting the hood of the Impala.

"He didn't mean it like that, baby," he whispers to the Impala, patting her hood again before sliding into the driver's seat and raising his eyebrows at Sam. "Quit being paranoid, Sammy. We haven't had any problems with the car since we were the FBI's Most Wanted."

"You say that like you're proud of it," Sam mutters under his breath. He rolls his eyes and unlocks the door to their motel room. "Only you would boast about your spot on the Most Wanted list."

Dean pulls the Impala into a spot a few doors away from their room, and then makes his way into the room. He finds Sam with a grotesque expression on his face.

"No wonders it's ninety bucks a night," Sam mutters as Dean stops by his side.

The room is plain: walls a yellowy-green, chunks of wood missing from the headboards. The TV is unplugged and a sign saying _Don't Bother Touching_ has been taped to the screen.

Dean chuckles.

"What?" he asks, patting Sam's shoulder. "Afraid you're gonna get hustled?"

Sam flushes again, much to Dean's delight.

"You know," Dean continues with a cheeky grin, "I think the clerk was checking you out. You might get some action here after all."

"Shut up," Sam mutters. Dean laughs.

After unpacking their stuff, Dean yawns for the hundredth time and checks his phone.

"Damn," Dean mumbles, rubbing his jaw with the palm of his hand, "it's already a quarter to one. We'd better crash. I'm assuming you want to be up early as hell to speak with the next of kin."

"You assume right," Sam says, reaching toward the buttons on his shirt.

"Four hours," Dean says, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling down the fly. "That's all I ask for." He points a finger at his brother and then turns toward the other end of the room. "If you wake me before then, may God help you."

Within minutes, both brothers have stripped down to t-shirts and boxers. Sam falls asleep on the bed in the back of the room instantly, and Dean is left lying on the other lumpy mattress, listening to his brother's soft snores. His eyes feel like lead weights. As they begin to close, he catches a glimpse of the only chair in the room, by the door, and stiffens.

_I'll watch over you_, Cas had offered, flicking his eyes toward the chair in the corner.

And yet Dean had said no. Granted, Dean had his reasons, but looking at the empty chair, he'd forget them all – temporarily, at least – if the angel would get his ass over here and be their third wheel again.

Dean's eyes slide closed, the thoughts of his best friend slipping away as sleep beckons him. His fingers lose their grip on his phone, and it slides into the sheets.

Seconds later, or so it feels like, Dean's phone vibrates against his thigh.

_Once_. Maybe it's a message from Garth.

_Twice_. A call. Someone is calling.

Dean plunges his stiff fingers down until they close around his phone. He doesn't bother reading the Caller ID. Instead, he flips the phone open and presses it to his ear, mumbling, "You'd better have a damn good reason for waking me up."

"Dean."

_Cas. _

Instantly, Dean is wide awake. He kicks his covers off, throwing himself out of the bed.

"Cas, what's goin' on?" he asks softly, stumbling toward the door so he won't wake Sam.

There is the sound of heavy breathing, followed by coughs that appear to crack something deep within the angel.

"Dean," Cas says again, his voice more broken than Dean has ever heard it. "I need…need help."

"Okay," Dean agrees without thinking. He doesn't have to think, not with Cas, not in these circumstances. "Where are you?"

Sam is sitting up in bed, his hair looking as if a tornado has hit it. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and glances over at Dean.

"I'm…I'm in a barn, in…in Michigan," Cas whispers, pausing to take a shuddering breath. "Dean, I-"

"If you say you're sorry I swear to God, I will take you back to Purgatory myself," Dean threatens, knowing that he'd never do such a thing, yet not knowing what to say. All knows is that something is horribly wrong with Cas. "What city are you in?"

"Ho…Holland," Cas says weakly. He begins to hack.

"Okay, I'm on my way," Dean promises, glancing back at Sam with what he hopes is an apologetic look.

"They took it," Cas whispers. His voice sounds garbled, as though he's swimming in blood. Considering that he's an angel, Dean wouldn't count out such a scenario.

"Took what?" Dean asks sharply. He reaches for a pair of his jeans, then proceeds to pull them on awkwardly, juggling the phone in between his ear and shoulder.

Sam is up by this point, staring intently at his brother.

"Red…barn…" Cas whispers to himself, sounding a little too similar to the birds-and-bees, lying your lean, naked body on peoples' cars Cas. The thought makes Dean shiver.

"Cas, damnit," Dean swears. "What did they take?"

He grabs the keys to the Impala and charges toward the door. Only Sam's hand on his shoulder keeps Dean from hurrying out barefoot.

"My Grace," Cas breathes in his gravelly voice, and then the line goes dead.


End file.
